Every collection of pixels
Programmed onto the screen
Every line of sulphur
Etched into scraps of dead trees

I still can't make my hands big enough
To grasp the relationships I always crave
My tongue is no match for my hands
And not even the way that I need to behave

I just always left lust behind
In the pursuit of emotional connections
Now this empty bed plagues my dreams
And what's on the nightstand? Rejection

But definitions have become twisted
My love is still compared to the first
And now my throat knows of no other
It always has this ******* thirst

Can lust finally catch up to me?
Is that a bad subject for my pleas?